


but it's always darkest before the dawn.

by tobeconvincedoflove



Series: TRC Prompt Fills [5]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Adam Parrish is Bad at Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Ronan Lynch Loves Adam Parrish, Vomiting, aaron burr voice this man is non stop, adam is miserable, adam parrish had a shitty child hood, but does that mean he's gonna stop? no, hello this is more, this time it is the stomach flu, violin!au, violinist!adam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 02:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15620631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: Adam wakes up the next morning on the couch in the living room. His back is sore, and his stomach is doing weird flips. He can’t tell if it’s guilt or anxiety or just his stomach being a dick after surviving on coffee and instant noodles the last week, but it doesn’t feel great. His entire body feels tight.Adam practices. He’s just tired, or strung-out from his not-fight with Ronan.(title from Shake it Off by Florence and the Machine)





	but it's always darkest before the dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> Can I just say that Florence and the Machine is such an Adam mood?
> 
> This is a prompt fill for Adam with the stomach flu at the same time he has a huge concertmaster solo.

Adam has just sat down for orchestra rehearsal when the second stand starts talking shit. No one’s happy that the trailer trash scholarship hick is concertmaster, not with his _cheap_ and lesser and piece-of-shit and unworthy violin. He’s heard it all, has heard it for years, but he thought he was over that shit now; he’s got a better violin now, one that’s beautiful and his. 

“They probably felt bad for him, that’s why he placed,” he had heard someone saying before rehearsal. It’s not even the beginning of the concert cycle; there’s, like, eight days until the concert. Adam doesn’t know why this shit is stirring up again, thought they were over this round. 

“He’s friends with Gansey. Nepotism, if I’ve ever seen it,” someone else had spat out. “Bad enough that he’s concertmaster. Now he gets the Swan Lake solo, too? Bullshit.” 

Ah. It’s the competition.

Luckily Henry and Noah are in the orchestra with him, but they’re both in the winds. Henry is principal horn, Noah second clarinet. Adam should have known that after the initial shock of Adam placing in the competition, bitterness would seep through and they would be back to the way they always were, complaining about everything that Adam does. 

He knows it’s just because they want his chair, that it’s probably not personal, that it’s just a few assholes in the section, but it doesn’t make it any easier. The conductor likes him, obviously, but he’s not the type to show anything but generic disappointment with the orchestra at large. 

“You ready?” The third chair, Chloe, asks. She was concertmaster last year, isn’t taking her demotion well at all. “It’s a difficult solo.” 

“I’ve worked on it,” Adam says stiffly. “I’m sure George will have notes.” It’s meant to be a shared joke about how picky their conductor is, but Chloe just turns her nose up.

“He never had notes for me.” That’s fucking revisionist history, but Adam just rolls his eyes and turns back around. He’s not going to fall for whatever trick she wants to play. If she wants this solo, she has to knock out two people. That’s just not happening.

“Sure he didn’t.” Adam’s stand-partner, a senior named SooBeen, just snorts. Chloe hits her, but she just gives Adam a look. She is honestly, truly, Adam’s favorite stand-partner, ever. Their duets always sound beautiful, and she’s very good at playing inside and isn’t an asshole about Adam’s left ear. 

“Got something to say?” Chloe asks, and SooBeen takes a second to think before responding. 

“He sure had a lot of notes during Scheherazade last year,” is all she says, before turning to Adam. They talk a little bit about the crazy shit their shared private teacher is making them do, until the conductor is on the stand and then it’s all business. 

Adam doesn’t get a lot of notes, but there’s something worming its way into his chest. He can tell himself over and over again that he worked for this, that he _does_ deserve this, but he can’t make himself believe it. This solo needs to be perfect. It’s not, not right now. 

He’s supposed to cook dinner with Ronan tonight, an attempt supported by all of them (they fucking signed a petition and everything) to teach Adam how to subsist on something other than instant noodles. 

Adam sends a quick text, saying he’s going to be in the practice rooms late. 

Ronan sends back an incomprehensible string of emojis. Five minutes later, just as Adam’s turning off his phone, he sees the follow-up: _That was the maggot. If you’re not out by eight, I’m dragging your ass out._

Adam just slides his thumb across the top of the screen, making his phone dead to the world. 

It’s a hard solo, and Adam’s shoulder has been hurting in the aftermath of his manic practicing leading up to the competition. He knows it’s nothing dangerous, but it’s just sore. It happens sometimes, if he doesn’t warm up properly or he isn’t working out properly. 

They can’t all have Ronan’s drummer arms. 

He does scales, trains his own ear a little before working with his double and triple stop exercises, moving into his etudes and finally, finally, the solo. 

He works until his fingers feel heavy, fat, unresponsive, takes a five minute break and then runs it again and again and takes it apart and puts it back together and it’s still not good enough. It sounds so forced, like Adam is barely holding on, and it needs to sound as effortless as ballet looks. 

He’s halfway through the delicate part, after a break to work on widening his vibrato in the upper register of the G string, when there’s a pounding on the door, and then there’s a Ronan.

“Give me half an hour,” Adam says, barely turning around. 

“It’s almost nine. You’ve had an extra… fifty-three minutes,” Ronan shoots back. “Give your hand a break.” 

“It’s not good enough.” Adam’s voice is curt. “It needs to be so much better before rehearsal on Tuesday. I can’t lose this solo, not now.” 

“You’re not going to lose it, shithead. The fuck happened?” Ronan’s voice isn’t any gentler than it normally is. He’s leaning against the door frame, arms crossed and face creased. 

“It’s just… people are being assholes. I need to practice.” 

For the first time since they’ve started dating, Adam closes the door on Ronan.

:: ::

It’s three days before Adam sees Ronan again. He’s home late, and Ronan is always asleep by the time Adam gets back, and Adam is gone before Ronan’s awake. Ronan, without fail, has left a plate in the microwave.

It’s usually still there when he wakes up. 

But, today, after his private, the practice rooms had all been full. And so Adam had come home. It’s concert week. He’s almost there, hasn’t actually had a note on his solo the last two rehearsals, but it’s not what he wants it to be. It’s not enough to shut them up. His plan is to listen to different recordings, to make sure everything about the entire piece, the entire set, is perfect. 

Ronan is sitting with his headphones on, drumsticks in hand, practicing a rhythm against their shitty kitchen table. He stops as soon as he sees Adam. 

“Jesus, you’re alive,” Ronan says, standing up and going to the fridge. “Sit the fuck down. You’re eating something.” 

“I’m not hungry.” It’s true. The whole day, Adam hasn’t had an appetite. He hasn’t really had an appetite all week, but today he looked at the clementine he’d had in his bag and he hadn’t even wanted to eat that. 

“I don’t give a fuck. You haven’t eaten all day,” Ronan says, slams the fridge just a little bit as he goes about heating up a plate. 

“I’m fine,” Adam says, but all it takes is one glare from Ronan before Adam plops himself at the table. “I’ve just been busy.”

“Yeah, running yourself into the ground over a few fucking dumbshits,” Ronan scoffs, and when he sees the surprise on Adam’s face, he twists his face into a feral grin. “You’re not the only one who’s friends with SooBeen.” 

“It’s not that,” Adam says, as Ronan puts the plate down with more force than necessary, but not enough that Adam knows Ronan is truly angry. He’s pissed, and annoyed, and a little bit worried (?), but he’s not _fighting_ mad. 

“Explain it then, shithead,” Ronan says, as Adam starts to play with the fork. 

“I got a lot more to prove, now, with the competition and shit,” Adam tries, but it’s clear from the look on Ronan’s face that he doesn’t buy it. “If I want to keep my spot next year, this has to be _good_.” 

“You’re paranoid.” Ronan’s voice is plain. “It sounds great, Adam. Your conductor hasn’t had any complaints, right? Then why the fuck do you.” 

“Just because he’s not complaining doesn’t mean he likes it.” Adam’s voice is raised, now. “You don’t fucking get it. You’re a prodigy; everyone knows you’re amazing. Everyone here thinks I only got in because I fill out a fucking socioeconomic quota and I’m sucking up to Gansey’s mom.” 

Ronan doesn’t respond. He just plays with the leather wristbands on the table. 

“I can’t even respond to that. People have always been assholes,” Ronan says. “I thought we were past this shit.” 

“You think this is nothing?” Adam’s face betrays the hurt. Ronan wants to backpedal, but there’s an anger that’s been smoldering in his gut and it’s finally caught on flame. Adam doesn’t see that none of it’s going to matter if he runs himself into the ground. “You’re never going to understand this, are you?” Adam can’t help the Henrietta in his voice. 

“No, I think that more of this is in your head than you think. All of your professors fucking love you. Why does it matter what everyone else thinks? Why do you care so fucking much?” Ronan’s voice is calm, but he knows the words cut. But he’s sick of Adam ignoring the fact that it’s not some outside force that’s beating him up right now, but himself. He won’t fucking acknowledge that half of this shit is just in his head. 

“Because I don’t have your name. I don’t have anything going for me other than whatever opportunities I can manage to grab, despite the fact that every-fucking-one just hates me more when I get them,” Adam gets out. His chest is heaving. His eyes are surprisingly wet. “You can tell me not to give a fuck, but I can’t change the fact that it still fucking _sucks_.”

“So let us help. Cheng and Noah are there. I’m there, whenever you need.” Ronan steps close, until they’re practically chest to chest. “You don’t have to let this shit eat at your brain. Locking yourself in a practice room? That’s not the answer.”

“You don’t get it.” And then Adam is out the door again, plate full on the table.

:: ::

Adam wakes up the next morning on the couch in the living room. His back is sore, and his stomach is doing weird flips. He can’t tell if it’s guilt or anxiety or just his stomach being a dick after surviving on coffee and instant noodles the last week, but it doesn’t feel great. His entire body feels tight.

Adam practices. He’s just tired, or strung-out from his not-fight with Ronan. 

The next night, he sleeps in their bed, but he wakes up sore and with a heavy head and limbs and his stomach doesn’t feel like it wants anything at all. 

Ronan glares at him when he leaves without bringing any food for the day. 

It’s just exhaustion, Adam is sure of it. He has work to do.

:: ::

Adam and Ronan still haven’t talked when he crawls into bed the night before the orchestra concert. Gansey had stopped him on his way in that night, shoving a water bottle into Adam’s left hand and a power bar into his right. Adam’s stomach flips at the thought of eating, but he sips at the water bottle before he’s under the covers.

It feels like Adam has just closed his eyes when he wakes up. His head feels heavy, disconnected from the rest of him and his stomach… it’s writhing like a snake, twisting and knotting itself and Adam barely makes it to the bathroom before his knees hit the floor and he’s vomiting water and bile into the toilet. His back aches with every heave, the force of it all sending tears to Adam’s eyes, and it’s like the entire world whites out until he falls back against the edge of the bathtub. 

One leg is stretched out in front of him, one knee close to his chest. Adam rests his head on his elbow on his knee, wishing his arm were the floor so that his aching and pulsing and burning forehead could find some relief. 

The floor is blessedly cool beneath him, and Adam barely realizes his falling over onto his side before he’s asleep, again. 

He wakes up to a pounding of feet, so loud and percussive that Adam swears that it’s just Ronan playing the fucking drums, but he can’t think too hard because then the lights crash on and Adam’s dry-heaving into the toilet. His back is tightening with each aborted heave, and when bile finally comes up it burns. But there’s a blessedly cool hand rubbing circles on his back, another slipping up over Adam’s forehead to help keep Adam’s curls out of the path of the grossly bright yellow liquid. When Adam’s muscles finally give up, nausea returning from white caps to gentle waves, he goes to lean back against the tub. Instead, he’s against someone’s chest. 

“Nngh,” Adam manages to get out, has to bite back a gag at the way his mouth tastes. Arms wrap around Adam, bring Adam’s hands to his own chest. There’s only one person who would do that. “R’an?”

“Jesus Mary _fuck_ ,” Ronan whispers, voice close to Adam’s right ear. “Yeah, it’s me. How long have you been in here?” 

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Adam’s voice sounds scratchy, panicked. He has no idea how long he’s been asleep on the floor.

“It’s okay. Let’s get you to bed.” Ronan’s voice is soft, calming, and he’s rubbing circles in the space between Adam’s thumb and first finger. 

“Don’t wanna move,” Adam slurs out, and that’s when Ronan’s had goes to Adam’s forehead, and Adam can’t help but lean against the cool touch. Before Adam knows what’s happening, Ronan is leaning him against the tub and standing. Adam’s vision is still blurry, hazy, and he can just make out Ronan’s grey t-shirt until Ronan is back, this time in front of Adam, smoothing his hair back from his forehead with one hand. 

There’s a beep that has Adam hissing as it reverberates around inside his skull, and then Ronan swears softly. 

“Okay, up we go,” Ronan says before he’s hauling Adam up by the armpits. Adam’s knees shake, and then he’s slumped against Ronan’s chest, whose arms quickly move to wrap around Adam’s waist and keep him upright. 

Adam gags once, and then the muscles in his neck go lax. He lets Ronan maneuver Adam so that he’s pressed against Ronan’s side, lets Ronan help him back to bed. As soon as he’s got Adam back under the covers, Ronan dashes out of the room. Adam faintly hears crashing sounds in the kitchen, but then Ronan’s back with an empty trashcan and an armful of water bottles. He tries to get Adam to take some medicine, but Adam just shakes his head. Ronan makes him drink some water, but then Adam is back against the mattress. 

He’s so tired. 

Ronan climbs into bed next to Adam, pulls Adam close. Adam lets himself be held, tries to ride out the wave of nausea. 

Adam focuses on Ronan’s arms around his waist. He doesn’t know when or how, but unconsciousness beckons him and Adam is too tired to fight it.

:: ::

Adam wakes up suddenly, pain in his stomach sudden and overwhelming. He can barely sit himself up and grab the trashcan before he’s vomiting whatever water Ronan had got into him that night. When he’s done, and Adam looks up, he sees Ronan’s concerned face.

“There’s no way you’re gonna make it to the concert,” Ronan says, as he takes the bucket and hands Adam a bottle of water. “Or class.”

“It’s Friday. I only got theory,” Adam says, Henrietta accent thick. “I can skip that. Not the concert. Be fine by then.” 

“Jesus Christ,” is all Ronan says in response. “Adam, you can’t tell me you’re okay to perform.” 

“Not now. But I will be,” Adam says, presses himself to a seated position. “Jus’ need to sleep. Then I’ll be fine.” 

“Adam,” Ronan starts. He’s looking up at their ceiling, as if he’s willing himself to find some kind of inner strength. “Motherfucker. I’m not going to win this one.” 

“Nope,” Adam says, tries to sip at the water more. “M’ gonna stay home until t’concert,” Adam says, lays back down. 

“You’re not going back to sleep until you drink something. Think you can handle some Gatorade?” Ronan asks, but Adam is already asleep again. 

This is going to be a shithole of a day.

:: ::

“Help me with my tie?” Ronan has no idea how Adam went from throwing up in the shower to wearing a suit in half an hour, but he isn’t going to fight with Adam. Not until this bullshit is over.

“I want the record to show that I think this is a shitty idea,” Ronan says, but he makes quick work of knotting Adam’s tie for him. Adam’s entire body is radiating heat; even though he slept on and off most of the day, he’s barely kept down water, and when they tried soup it had come back up within the hour. Adam is tired, barely moving from the bed to the bathroom and back again. 

But Ronan knows Adam. He’s got the beginnings of adrenaline, Ronan can see it in the way Adam’s legs aren’t shaking as much, in the way his eyes look clearer than they have all day. It’ll carry him through, but the crash is going to be brutal. 

Ronan is driving them to the concert hall. He has blankets and water bottles and Gatorade and barf bags all ready to go. He’s got SooBeen keeping him updated, and that should be enough.

:: ::

The first piece the orchestra plays is Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony. It’s always been one of Blue’s favorites, the lilting melodies are as beautiful and natural as folk music, but Ronan isn’t really listening. He’s watching, watching as Adam’s face tightens the longer the piece goes on, but he isn’t listening.

Ronan beats Adam to the backstage bathroom, during intermission. He makes sure that Adam doesn’t get any Blue Gatorade-tinged vomit on his dress shirt, hands Adam another water bottle even as Adam collapses back against Ronan. 

Ronan knows that if he opens his mouth he’s going to start a fight, so he bites his lip hard. 

Eventually, Adam pulls himself to his feet using Ronan’s t-shirt, hands sweaty and grip weaker than it should be. Ronan’s arms go around Adam’s waist, and Ronan just sighs. 

“I can see your knees shaking, Adam. You can barely _stand_ ,” Ronan says, and Adam looks up at him with a shit-eating grin. It’s ruined the paleness of his face, the darkness of the circles under his eyes. 

“Good thing I’ll be sitting.” And then Adam walks backstage. 

He feels better, after the water. SooBeen is giving him looks, and he knows she’s texting Ronan, but it’s all manageable until he has to tune the orchestra for Swan Lake. The lights on the stage make Adam feel like he’s both freezing and burning at the same time, and he’s focusing so hard on staying standing that he has no idea how he makes it through the process. 

The solo is relatively early in the suite, and Adam isn’t even really thinking as it happens. He knows he’s playing the right notes, that the sound is lush and exactly how he wants it, but actually thinking about it is just out of his reach no matter how hard he tries to force his mind to do its job. 

The rest of the piece is a blur. The conductor’s arms are moving too much and too quickly to really be anything but blurs, but Adam knows the piece well enough that he does his job and gets through it. Before he can really parse anything, the conductor is shaking his hand, giving Adam a concerned look, and then it’s bows and Adam is off stage. 

He slips down the wall, legs unwilling to remain standing any longer. In an instant, SooBeen is in front of him. 

“Okay. I’m going to put your violin away and get Ronan. Drink this.” A water bottle is pressed into Adam’s hand. 

“No, I can—” Adam doesn’t want anyone to put his instrument away but himself, but when the world greys out when he goes to stand, he lets her take it from him and focuses on blinking the dots away from his vision. He knows the other players are staring at him, but any energy he had is gone. 

His stomach is flipping and twisting and stabbing itself to pieces, and he just wants Ronan. 

Adam remembers their fight. 

He feels so fucking guilty that he has to blink his eyes clear of tears. He knows what Ronan was trying to do, that the reason it escalated was because Adam was stressed and needed to take it out on someone. It shouldn’t have happened. God, he wants Ronan, because he can’t remember ever feeling this terrible, but he doesn’t want Ronan, because of it all. 

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing really is. 

“Hey.” That’s Ronan’s voice, Ronan tapping at his knees. Adam looks up, and he wants to cry. “Adam, what’s wrong?”

Adam just shakes his head. Ronan is close now, and Adam just throws his arms around Ronan and buries his head against Ronan’s t-shirt. SooBeen is hovering, hands holding Adam’s violin case, and as Ronan takes advantage of Adam’s tight hold to bring them both to a standing position, he gestures for the case, but SooBeen just gives him a look and follows them out. They get to the hallway before Adam’s hands weakly press against Ronan’s chest, and he gags once.

“M gonna… don’ wanna…” Adam gets out, freeing a hand from Ronan to wrap around his own stomach. “It hurts.” 

“Okay. Okay.” Ronan’s voice isn’t shaky, but there’s so much uncertainty. “Come on, Adam, just make it to the car.” He’s practically carrying Adam at this point, SooBeen trailing behind with the case. 

He gets Adam into the passenger seat, loads the violin into the back, thanks SooBeen, and then he’s digging around in the backseat. 

“Here,” Ronan shoves a bottle of Gatorade at Adam. “Before you bitch, I already diluted it with water. Don’t wanna hear you complain about how sticky it is.” Adam just grunts, and Ronan wraps Adam in a blanket and hands him an empty bag before getting to the driver’s side. “You puke in my car, I wake you up with Murder Squash for the next month. Got it? Sundays inclusive.”

“You’re an asshole,” Adam gets out, tipping his head back and taking a small sip of the Gatorade, wrinkling his nose at the taste. “It’s so… much.”

“I don’t give a shit. You’re not fucking dehydrating or throwing out your whole ass back dry-heaving,” Ronan says. “Look, I know you’re like eight thousand kinds of miserable right now. It’ll feel better when we get you out of the suit and into bed.” 

“Why are you being so nice? Why aren’t you mad?” Adam’s eyes are wide, and it takes everything Ronan has to keep his eyes mostly on the road instead of his boyfriend. 

“That fight was stupid. We have bigger fish to fry right now, Parrish,” Ronan says, and he doesn’t know if it’s the imagery of fish or what, but Adam is throwing up onto his suit and blanket and miraculously still getting something into the bag.

“I fucking hate Murder Squash.” Adam croaks, wiping the back of his mouth with his suit jacket. Ronan leaves himself a mental note to ask Gansey where the fuck to dry clean shit around here.

:: ::

For the third time that night, Ronan is holding back Adam’s hair as he vomits yellow-tinged water into the toilet. Adam’s back and stomach are cramping, fever just high enough to make Adam miserably warm but not high enough to actually be of concern. When it’s over this time, Adam collapses back against Ronan, entire body trembling.

Adam lets out a sob.

“Why are you… I’m a fucking mess, Ronan. I’m a mess and you’re still here and—” It’s phrases garbled with fever and exhaustion and just plain hurting that don’t make sense but leave Adam shaking in Ronan’s arms. He tries to whisper comforting things, that he’s here and he’s not leaving and it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay—

Adam is dry-heaving, and Ronan sees the muscle spasming in Adam’s lower back and as soon as it’s done, this time, he gets Adam sandwiched with a heating pad on his back and a hot water bottle for the cramps but Adam is still crying too hard to get him to drink something else. Some of the water has stayed down, but every time he even gets some Gatorade into Adam it’s right back up. 

If it doesn’t get better soon, Ronan’s going to have to take Adam to a doctor. 

Ronan holds Adam close, as Adam’s hands fist weakly into Ronan’s shirt, their foreheads close even as Adam’s head bows. 

“When I was a kid,” Adam starts, breath hitching in his chest, and Ronan tries to shush Adam with a kiss to his jaw, a kiss to his forehead. The last thing Adam needs right now is to rehash everything fucked up part of his childhood, but Adam just breathes and continues. “When I got the stomach flu, she locked me in the bathroom. Said we couldn’t afford it if everyone else got sick.” 

“Jesus,” Ronan says, holds Adam just a little bit tighter.

“I could barely stand, could barely remember to get water from the sink,” Adam sobs, and then he doesn’t talk anymore. Ronan tries to suppress his anger and focus on calming Adam the fuck down, on stopping the tremors and getting Adam some fucking rest. 

Adam falls asleep after two a.m., half a water bottle later. It stays down.

:: ::

Adam wakes up at four o’clock in the afternoon to Ronan playing Murder Squash on his phone.

“I never fucking forget,” Ronan says, even as Adam manages to pull sore muscles up into a seated position. Ronan shoves a Gatorade into his hand. “You slept for a good fourteen hours. Feeling better?” 

Adam manages a nod. Ronan shoves a Gatorade at him. 

“Keep that down and we can watch Brooklyn 99 until you pass the fuck out again.” Ronan is crawling back next to Adam, pressing a kiss to Adam’s forehead before he reaches over Adam for his own laptop. 

They start the episode before Adam even takes a sip out of the bottle.

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyyy, let me know what you think? I love reading comments and always feel free to drop me a prompt! I have like 3 weeks until the semester starts, so if there's something you want to see and don't want to wait 4 months, now is your window <3


End file.
